Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3)

by Y. K. Willemse

  “No!” Rafen said, much too loudly. “Etana, we’ll get killed. We still have to be careful.”

  “We have to take a gamble,” Etana said. “You must remember Parith is at stake. And not only Parith, but Quidon, which can be attacked better from here, and then New Isles.”

  “Etana, you are the Sianian heir,” Rafen said. “Don’t be stupid. I won’t let you do it.”

  When he stared at her fiercely, Etana simply raised an estimating eyebrow. “We’ll tell them we have an urgent message for Cyril Earl,” she said. “Are you happy with that? Then we can speak to Cyril in private.”

  “I still like the idea of a back way,” Rafen insisted.

  “For heaven’s sake, Rafen, let’s just try this. Otherwise, we may make all the effort to break in, and then we’ll get captured and end up looking like fools anyway.”

  “Fine, have it your way,” Rafen said irritably, his hand wandering to his phoenix feather.

  Zion, don’t let her do anything stupid, he thought.

  They moved over to the gates, from which the two guards had been eyeing them suspiciously. One inclined his head as they approached.

  “And what would two street urchins like you want?” His crisp accent betrayed the fact he was a well-bred Sianian.

  Rafen stared at the ground, making sure he didn’t give away his identity.

  Etana cleared her throat in a boyish manner. “We have an urgent message for Lord Cyril Earl.”

  The two guards looked at each other and laughed pleasantly. They turned back to Etana.

  “Sorry, lad,” the first one said. “You’re out of luck.”

  “It’s about a plot on Lord Cyril Earl’s life,” Etana said quickly, but the guards had seen the look in her eyes before she had even begun the sentence.

  “I’ll tell his lordship to keep a wary eye about him,” the second said.

  Etana stamped her foot in impatience. “Listen, you idiots,” she said in a sharp, high voice; and Rafen knew what was coming even as he snapped his head up and the guards stared at both of them wonderingly. “I’m—”

  “Etana, don’t!” Rafen said, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her back.

  Then he realized what he had said and reddened. Etana smiled in smug gratification.

  “Exactly,” she said to the guards. “I’m Etana Calista Selson. And I’m here with a message that will save the city.”

  The guards’ mouths were partially open. Rafen closed his eyes in horror.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Plans

  Whispering some hasty words, one of the guards presented them to a young manservant, who escorted them through Cyril Earl’s vast halls to a wide sitting room. Settees with round blue cushions furnished the area. The back wall was composed of large paneled windows that opened out onto a little stone area containing an old-fashioned well and a stone bench, swathed in flowering vines. The right wall held a huge canvas painted in Tarhian style: a long gray incline against a navy sky. Occasional splashes of moss green brightened it up.

  “His lordship will see you shortly,” the manservant said, bowing. His eyes slid to Etana, and he looked terrified as he backed away down the hall.

  The cream-painted wooden door had been left open behind them, and Rafen seized Etana’s arm.

  “Get your scepter out,” he said. “This could be a trap.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Etana said, sitting down on one of the settees with aplomb, even though she was wet to the skin. “There’s no need. You can let go of my arm, Rafen.”

  “Fine.” Rafen released her, whipping his sword out.

  Etana rolled her eyes. “You said Alexander knew which side Cyril Earl was on,” she said.

  “Yes, but you can never be sure,” Rafen replied, with the air of explaining something to a little child. “I’m being prepared.”

  Etana met his eyes and turned pale. “Are you saying this because you know or just because you are scared?” she asked. “You were right once before. But if you’re only nervous—”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “So you know this will go wrong?” Etana leapt up from the settee.

  “No,” Rafen said.

  Etana gave him a withering look. “You’re just scared then. I knew it.”

  The door swung further open, and a man strode in, accompanied by the same manservant.

  “Wait down the hall a bit, Henry, until I am finished,” the man said, in a deep, refined voice.

  Henry looked immoderately curious as the door was closed in his face. The man faced Rafen and Etana.

  He had a thin layer of white blond hair lying in horizontal furrows over his level head. His face was long with high cheekbones, and his mouth was a slight, mauve line. He was tall, but slender, and his legs were the longest part of him – two-thirds of his body. He wore a navy velvet coat that reached past his knees, and a black cravat round his neck. His knobbly fingers were decorated with gaudy rings, set with black and purple stones.

  Etana rose and dipped her knees almost imperceptibly. Rafen remained stiffly upright. He stepped closer to Etana and grabbed her hand, glowering at Lord Cyril Earl and brandishing his sword.

  Cyril Earl’s lip curled slightly, and a twinkle came into his blue eyes.

  “My manservant is in awe,” he said to Etana. “He believes we have two highly unusual people in this keep.”

  Etana nodded, freeing her hair from her collar and unbuttoning the first two buttons of her shirt. Her amethyst sat against her right clavicle, gleaming in the silvery light that streamed through the back wall’s windows.

  Lord Cyril Earl breathed in slowly before removing his navy coat to reveal a white linen shirt. With dignity, he cast the coat away onto one of the settees and bowed low, careful to avoid Rafen’s naked sword.

  “Your Highness,” he said softly. “It is true then. My men had not the slightest doubt of it. Your manner is unmistakable.”

  When Etana smiled, Rafen gripped her hand tighter, trying to stare Lord Cyril Earl down.

  “You look much wetter and hungrier than when we last met,” Cyril said. “Allow me to call for some food and dry clothes, Your Highness.”

  “No,” Etana said, raising her free hand. “You have to hear what I must say. Then we will see how much time we have.”

  Lord Cyril Earl bowed again, his eyes shifting to Rafen. “It seems the Fledgling does not favor me,” he said testily.

  Etana had removed Rafen’s floppy-rimmed hat earlier, revealing his mass of black curly hair so that he was recognizable. Now she kicked his ankle. He didn’t even flinch, his wolfish nature boiling in his veins.

  “Rafen,” Etana said in exasperation, “try to be friendly. Lord Cyril Earl has paid me honor.”

  Rafen grunted incredulously.

  “I beg your pardon,” Etana said. She turned to Cyril Earl. “Rafen actually carried the message to me, and has seen more than any of us. He knows how Siana’s future may unfold.”

  Cyril Earl stared at him in wonder. “Indeed,” he said. “My Lord Rafen is Siana’s future. A great reward has been placed on his head by the Lashki. He has been nimble indeed to escape all those looking for him; you have done well, My Lord. I am your servant.”

  He got on his knee. Rafen stared in disbelief.

  “Tell me the truth,” he said, grasping Etana’s hand even tighter and pointing his sword at Lord Cyril Earl’s chest. “Do you fight for Zion or not?”

  “Rafen, calm down,” Etana told him. “He’s paying you homage.”

  “If that is the first thing you ask of your servant,” Cyril Earl said, “I can answer you honestly: I serve Zion with the same fervor as you, My Lord Rafen. But I would be put at greater ease if you would sheath your sword.”

  “Swear it.”

  Etana rolled her eyes again.

  “I swear it on my life; and you have permission to slay me through the heart with my own sword if I betray your faith.”

  Rafen sheathed his sword and relaxed his grip
on Etana as Cyril Earl rose.

  “Your loyalties are admirable, My Lord,” the nobleman said.

  “You don’t have to call me—”

  “Rafen,” Etana interrupted, “don’t object. It is meet.”

  “Meat?” Rafen said.

  “Correct, apt,” Etana said impatiently. “We’re wasting time.”

  “We are indeed,” Cyril Earl said. “I offer you both a seat.”

  Etana assumed her previous position, and Rafen gingerly sat down next to her, sending one of the round cushions rolling onto the floor. Cyril Earl occupied a settee opposite them.

  “There is someone else in Siana, besides Talmon and the Lashki and my Uncle Frankston, who could destroy our hopes of reclaiming the country,” Etana said, her eyes fixed on Cyril Earl. She had folded her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles, as Sianian etiquette for the nobility dictated. “Sirius Jones has come to Siana.”

  Cyril Earl paused in the act of sniffing some tobacco from a snuff box. He looked up. “This is bad news.”

  Etana looked expectantly at Rafen; she did not know all the details. Rafen met Cyril Earl’s eyes.

  “Sirius plans to take over Siana,” he said in a low voice. “He says it’s because he has scores to settle with Talmon. I think he also wants another base from which he can launch ships. And he wants the country’s wealth.”

  “He is addicted to power,” Cyril observed, slipping the snuff box back into a pocket in his breeches.

  “Yes,” Etana whispered.

  “Sirius has already won Rusem,” Rafen said. His throat tightened when he remembered the numerous bodies… the people whose lives he had helped Sirius to end. “From there, he plans to take Parith, Quidon, and lastly New Isles. He’ll gain strength and numbers on the way.”

  Cyril chewed his lip ponderously, his forehead furrowed. “How many men did the victory at Rusem set him back by?”

  “Set him back?” Rafen said, his neck muscles tensing. “It gained him thousands.”

  “How many did he take the city with?” Cyril clarified.

  “He came to it with twenty.”

  “Oh,” Cyril said. “I see. I have heard of such things only in legends. I suppose he came with a party of imbeciles and built them up with every man who has ever thought himself loyal to the Pirate King. Only Sirius could do it. Once they are in his net, they do not escape easily.”

  “You will save Parith, Cyril,” Etana said with quiet certainty.

  Cyril stroked his lip with an index finger. “Yes,” he said. “But I will need the Tarhians.”

  *

  Rafen couldn’t keep still. He kept pacing in Cyril’s banquet hall.

  The hall was nothing compared to what King Robert’s had been, but it was still large enough for fifteen strides down its length. It contained one long table with several candelabras down its middle. The chandelier was simple, carrying only nine candles. A large plant stood in the right corner of the room, spilling lilies.

  “Do sit, Rafen,” Etana said from where she rested on a chair, delicately popping grapes into her mouth.

  Rafen had devoured two slices of bread, a pool of gravy-soaked meat, and one pear. Though Cyril had also provided them both with wine, Rafen had only drunk half the goblet.

  “You cannot trust the Tarhians,” he said for the tenth time.

  “Cyril needs them,” Etana said. “We can at least use them if they are there, Rafen. They will help us fight off Sirius, and then we will fight them and win this city for Siana. Some of the Tarhians will die in battle. Better them than our men.”

  “But they might side with Sirius,” Rafen told her. “Listen, Etana – I trusted Sirius against my better judgment, and look where it led me. He does things to your head. I helped him, Zion curse me for it! And now he has a city, and his power is growing. We should not—”

  Etana paused with a grape halfway to her mouth. “Are you out of your mind?” she said. “Which is worse – Sirius or the Tarhians? Clearly Sirius, at this stage. The Tarhians are only fearsome because the Lashki is behind them. It’s better to beat Sirius away while we can, with whom we can. The Tarhians are lodged already. We’ll move them later, but we must make sure Sirius doesn’t become lodged. And I don’t think the Tarhians and pirates are about to work together. You told me Sirius hated Talmon. I think Tarhians and pirates hate each other as much as Tarhians and Sianians do. The difference is, we’re nice.”

  With a frustrated sigh, Rafen lowered himself onto a chair and stared at Etana as she ate. His disquiet gave way to something else as he looked on… Etana again froze with the grape, which she had nearly gotten into her mouth.

  “Do you have to do that? Rafen, you’re putting me off my food.”

  “I just admire you.”

  Etana choked on her grape, and Rafen banged her on the back.

  “Thank you,” she said, with dignity.

  Rafen rose again as another thought occurred to him. “How long will it take Cyril to bring the others here?”

  “His riders should find them within three days,” Etana said. “They’ll be with us soon, Rafen. And then we can prepare all together.”

  Cyril had promised Rafen that he had about two hundred Sianian men at his disposal. While his numbers had been severely restricted after the Lashki’s victory over Siana, the fact he had retained as many as he had was positive. The Tarhians would likely provide up to two thousand. Again, Rafen found the whole thing too risky. The Sianians were going to be outnumbered ten to one. And after they defeated Sirius, the Sianians would have to battle the Tarhians.

  “I suppose Zion knows what he’s doing,” Rafen said, resuming

  pacing.

  Etana heaved a long sigh. “You’re not a very restful person to be around. You do know that, don’t you?”

  *

  “Say, it were a bit wet out there,” Sherwin said.

  Rubbing a towel over his arms, he stood in the same sitting room Lord Cyril Earl had first welcomed Rafen and Etana into. Next to him, Alexander smiled wanly, still clasping a nervous-looking Francisco by the shoulder. Their journey had not gone without event then, Rafen thought. Etana had been wrong.

  Rafen’s constant anxiety during their trip to Parith had likely been half his brother’s.

  Etana occupied the settee against the right wall with Rafen, who had been sitting rather too close until the other three had been ushered in. On seeing them, Rafen had leapt up to embrace Francisco and Sherwin.

  “Are you all right?” he murmured in Francisco’s ear.

  “Tolerable, my brother,” Francisco said weakly. “By Carn, I am glad you are safe.”

  “Good to see yer, Raf,” Sherwin told him.

  “Zion, I’ve missed you both,” Rafen said.

  He had returned to Etana’s side while they dried off. Cyril sat across from them, giving orders to his manservant Henry from his settee.

  “Fresh clothes, Henry. They may change in another room. Don’t forget to bring a tray with everything they might need. Another towel perhaps.”

  Henry muttered something about the “travelers” being unfit for the sitting room. Cyril looked askance at him.

  “They are welcome here,” he said.

  It had been three and a half days before Cyril Earl’s riders had brought the others back. The Sianian lord had done everything he could to stop Rafen tearing his keep apart in frustration. He gave him books to read, maps to scan, a room, a sword, and his manservant Henry to practice against. But Henry was poor at fencing; Rafen got more gratification out of fighting a pole than fighting him. Etana also spent time with Rafen, teaching him how to create better kesmalic shields. When Cyril wasn’t looking, Rafen would transform and romp with his hunting dogs. The dogs were nervous at first, hanging back like a group of old ladies when a young soldier has intruded at their tea party. Yet when they saw Rafen only meant to play, they joined in happily.

  Still, Rafen was restless. There was war in the offing, and he couldn’t get it out of his h
ead.

  “’ere’s the mortar and trowel,” Sherwin said, shoving the towel at Francisco. Francisco took it, looking slightly shell-shocked. “Some soap might do the smell some good, but all good things in time, ’ey?”

  Alexander raised his eyebrows at Sherwin’s cockney English.

  “I trust your travels were not too eventful.” Cyril took a pinch of tobacco from his snuff box. “My men said they found you in the thick rain, but that there were no pursuers.”

  “At the time,” Alexander said.

  “Was it Sirius?” Rafen asked sharply.

  Etana seized his arm. “Will you stop it?” she hissed. “You make everyone nervous.”

  Rafen fumed beneath contracted black eyebrows.

  “Good gooseberry puddin’ that,” Sherwin said. “Make yer a nice trouble and strife some day, Raf.”

  He laughed, knowing no one but Rafen – who was reddening accordingly – had understood what he had said.

  “What on the Pilamùr was that meant to mean, Sherwin?” Alexander said, eyeing him.

  “Nothin’, nothin’,” Sherwin said innocently, winking at Rafen. Rafen thought grimly that Sherwin was meant for this kind of life. Fighting and being constantly pursued meant little more to Sherwin than adventure, and he got the same the stimulation out of it that someone might get out of a morning run in the country.

  “It wasn’t Sirius,” Alexander said, looking at Rafen. “I tried to attack him while he was down, but I had such difficulty finding the real man amid all those mirages that he got away. I think he was too preoccupied in arriving here with his men to give me a fight. No, it wasn’t him, nor the Lashki. There was a Tarhian group with the general Mainte that gave us trouble. We threw them off in the end.”

  Though Alexander said this in an understated way, it was plain from Francisco’s white face that it had been an ordeal.

  “The philosopher thought you were me,” Rafen said softly, knowing Alexander had neglected to mention the Ashurite.

  Francisco nodded timidly.

  “You are just the man we need in this time, Alexander,” Cyril said, rising from the settee after another pinch of tobacco. “I have two hundred men I would like you to lead into battle.”